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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



MAYBLOOM AND MYRTLE 




(fu^h-xS (J* is-yn^ <lcl ,-Xi^l^t 






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MAYBLOOM AND 
MYRTLE 



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By 

Samuel Minturn Peck 

Author of 
The Grapevine Swing," "The Knot of Blue," etc., etc. 







b 
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Boston 
Dana Estes & Company 



<£* 



Publishers 



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Copyright, 1910, 
By Dana Estes & Company 



(&CU268662 



TO 

THE MEMORY OF 

;Ptp &i£rtcr 

MARY LEE PECK LEACH 



I have been Maying, 

Sighing while straying — 
Sighing that all that is lovely is fleet; 

What I bring hither, 

Take ere it wither; 
Maybloom and Myrtle I lay at your feet. 



QIahfe nf Qlnntettta 



PAGE 

The Time to Woo 13 

Peggy at the Brook 14 

His Confidante 16 

The Quaker Maid 18 

Anne Eliza Green 20 

My Old Clay Pipe 22 

Sylvia's Dimple 24 

The Old Clock 26 

A Twilight Picture 28 

Ingle Fancies 29 

Priscilla 32 

The Maid of Japan 33 

To Mabel who Wished to be a Shepherdess . 35 

Little White Shoon 38 

Peggy 40 

Long Ago 42 

My Little Picture Tree 43 

An Old Mirror from Touraine .... 46 

By the Hearth at Halloween .... 49 

ix 



Contents 



Soma of Hon* 

PAGE 

An Olden Dream 55 

The Fairy Flower 57 

When Katy Tuned the Old Guitar ... 59 

A Message by Night 61 

A Twilight Song 63 

The Garden of my Heart 65 

Song 67 

The Blossom from Lillian's Hair ... 68 

Song at Twilight 70 

Song 71 

Rose Song 73 

Under the Moon 74 

The Lover 75 

Nutting Song 77 

My Love for Thee 79 

The Waif 81 

Serenade 83 

Song in Absence 85 

&grtr0 of Nature 

Twilight 89 

Where the Rosemary Blows by the Sea . . 91 

The Old - time Flowers 93 

Wind Song 95 

The Cricket on the Hearth 97 

A Summer Mood 99 

What the Wild Winds Say 101 

Crape Myrtle 103 

X 



Contents 



PAGE 

The Secret of the Wood 105 

Wild Asters 109 

The Cherokee Rose Ill 

Mid - afternoon 114 

November 116 

The Wind in the Night 117 

A Petal of a Shattered Rose . . . .119 

A Cricket Song 121 

#0ttg attfl ^Ijaooui 

The Old Man at the Toll - gate . . . .125 

Foreboding 127 

The Fairy in the Firelight 128 

Song 130 

Forgiven 131 

The Rose and the Star 133 

The Ways of Memory 134 

By -gone Days 136 

The Voice in the Night 138 

Song 140 

A Dead Butterfly 141 

I Want to go a - berryin' 143 

The Bachelor's Christmas Eve .... 146 

The Old Songs 149 



XI 



Ct0l|t WtX&t 



iHagbloom mh MqxXit 



THE TIME TO WOO 

A LITTLE white rose in the garden blew, 
When the dew in the dawn lay bright; 
And over the grass came her lovers to woo, 

And faithful troth to plight. 
But the rose bade the wind go sigh, go sigh; 
She flouted the vows of the butterfly; 
And the cricket — he skipped without saying- 
good-bye 
To the little white rose in the garden. 

But alack! the wee rose — as the gloaming grew, 

She quaked in the twilight gray, 
When a moth flew out of a lime to sue 

And won her without delay. 
That bold night-moth that flew from the lime, 
He won the wee rose without reason or rhyme, 
Because — sly fellow! — he knew just the time 

To woo a white rose in the garden. 
13 



JWanfctoow autr JWfittle 



PEGGY AT THE BROOK 

A MOMENT on the bank to view 
The tide with timid air, 
And in she tript with kirtle blue 

Above her white feet bare. 
So fair a sight it never knew, 
That shy and lilied nook; 
Nor I amid 
The willows hid, 
When Peggy crossed the brook. 

The glistening water loath to go, 

Encircled rock and fern; 
It eddied in its silver flow 

With many a twist and turn. 
The old mill waited far below — 
The stream the call forsook; 
And hushed its trill, 
And tarried till 
Sweet Peggy crossed the brook. 

The sun slipt through the willow leaves. 
And fell upon her hair; 

14 



j»agt)loom anft jMgrtle 

'Mid locks the hue of autumn sheaves 

It wove a witching snare. 
Too late my beating heart perceives 
The peril of a look: 
The spell was wrought, 
My heart was caught 
As Peggy crossed the brook. 

The mowers sang a merry lay, 

Haymaking on the hill; 
But down beside the brook that day 

The air was soft and still. 
I wished the scene might live for aye, 
Like pictures in a book; 
But fairest things 
Have fleetest wings — 
And Peggy crossed the brook. 



15 



JHasfiioom autr fflsvtlt 



HIS CONFIDANTE 

POOR little Fan ! You're left like this 
While she goes off to dance? 
Alas, — I know, — 'tis hard to miss 

That dimpled, roguish glance. 
My sympathy ! I grieve to see 
You shut up, and half -hid — 
I do, although you laughed at me, 
Yes, saucy Fan, you did. 

But I forgive. A lover seems 

So queer — that's why you laughed. 
Ah, if I told you all my dreams, 

Perhaps you'd deem me daft. 
I fancy you a butterfly; 

I fancy her, a rose — 
Strange fancies to a fan to sigh! 

'Twere better to propose. 

Sh! — she comes, my Rose of Light! 

The Nymph I love — and fear. 
Dear Fan, as you go home to-night, 

Pray whisper in her ear: 

16 



iHayfclootu autr Jtt»rtle 



Though many a vow she heard above 

The murmur of the ball, 
The man who dared not tell his love - 

He loves her best of all. 



17 



jttayiiioom an* JH»*ttt 



THE QUAKER MAID 

SHE was a little Quaker maid, 
Her gown was quaint, her mien was staid. 
Forsooth, no wild-flower by a brook 
Was ever shyer in its look. 
So sweet her eyes whene'er by chance, 
'Neath drooping lids peeped forth her glance, 
The while her cheeks the lashes kissed 
One thought of stars behind a mist; 
And as the Summer roses shed 
A scent that lingers when they've fled, 
So did the lustre of her eyes 
In absence to my memory rise 
To heighten joy, to banish pain. 
And as we strolled a-down the lane, 
Beside the gate her face grew sad; 

And tremblingly to me, 
'Tis late," she said, " yet I'd be glad 

If thee would bide a wee." 

She was a little Quaker maid, 
And when she'd spoken, seemed afraid. 
Had she propriety o'erstepped? 
Oh, most appalling thought! She wept, 
18 



JttaiHiioom antr JWffvtle 



And quivering stood bedewed with tears, 
Unconscious that, to soothe her fears, 
The apple-blossoms drifted down 
And gave her maidenhood a crown 
Most fair and meet. I gazed a-thrill. 
Had I the power — I had the will — 
To win a love so lily-white 
It shamed in spotlessness the light? 
I dared. I spoke — the words were few, 
And what they were, I never knew. 
But this I know; no longer sad 

Her face smiled up to me, 
Think thee 'tis late? I am so glad — 

Come in and bide a wee! " 



19 



itf asttloom autr JW»ttle 



ANNE ELIZA GREEN 

" I ^WAS at the singing school I met 
X That fair and most enchanting maid. 

Her eyes were blue; her locks were jet, 
With ribbons winsomely arrayed. 

In one soft cheek a dimple hid 

And only when she smiled was seen — 

But, oh, the havoc that it did 
For Anne Eliza Green! 



Her red, red lips — 'twas kind o' queer, 
But when she oped her mouth to sing 

It seemed to me that I could hear 
A rustle as of Cupid's wing. 

Whene'er she laughed, as white as snow 
Her small teeth flashed her lips between 

A.nd oh, how sweet the laughter low 
Of Anne Eliza Green ! 

And when the singing school was done, 
And all stood 'neath the starry dome, 

Each fellow strove to be the one 
To see the peerless maiden home; 

20 



JH3£t)lootu anH JWffttle 



And when amid the adoring train 

She chose an arm on which to lean, 
She cast a smile on every swain, 
Did Anne Eliza Green. 

"Pis more than thirty years ago. 

Alas, how fast old Time hath raced ! 
Perhaps her locks are flaked with snow, 

More ample now her lissome waist; 
Perhaps the crow hath paced those eyes 

Whose glances now have grown serene - 
Perhaps she'd fill me with surprise, 
Sweet Anne Eliza Green. 

We both have wed. I love my wife; 

And doubtless she her husband too. 
We both have reached the eve of life, 

Our peaceful hearts have naught to rue. 
Yet hearts are not controlled by will, 

And each man's breast is like a screen - 
So in the dusk I'm dreaming still 
Of Anne Eliza Green. 



21 



Jttatffcloom unXf Jtt»rtle 



MY OLD CLAY PIPE 

I WOULD the skies were ever blue, 
And life from sorrow free; 
Or else that friends were always true, 

But that can never be. 
The hand of fate across the loom 

Oft weaves a dusky stripe, 
And then I seek amid the gloom 
My old clay pipe. 

'Tis wise to laugh one's ills away, 

And hum a merry song, 
But where's the heart that's always gay 

When everything goes wrong! 
So if a sulky pout I see 

On dear lips red and ripe, 
I find the friend still true to me, 
My old clay pipe. 

I used to think that I could make 

Of life an endless smile, 
And dreamed of one who, for my sake, 

Were loving all the while; 

22 



But now I check the useless tear 

I'd be too proud to wipe, 
And bless the friend that's ever near, 
My old clay pipe. 



Jttafffcloom attfr Jtt»rttt 



SYLVIA'S DIMPLE 

SYLVIA'S gown was bewitching, 
And fashioned of ribbon and lace, 
A marvel of puffing and stitching, 

Of criss-cross and curly-cue grace. 
So perfectly planned was this toilette, 

She rivalled a sylph in her shape; 
And yet, I had power to foil it — 
'Twas her dimple I could not escape. 

Sylvia's tresses were tinted 

With amber in shine and in shade; 
The sunlight — how tenderly glinted 

Its rays on the locks of the maid! 
Sooth, it was rapture to eye them 

Imprisoned in ringlet or twist; 
Yet, truly, I might have passed by them 

'Twas her dimple I could not resist. 

Her cheeks had the color of peaches 
That lightly the Summer hath kissed, 

Or the hue of the rose that beseeches 
The moon, half-hid by a mist. 
24 



'Twas peerless — the line of their curving 
By sun-heated breezes untanned; 

I might have beheld them, unswerving — 
'Twas her dimple I could not withstand. 

Ah, what shall I sing of her lashes, 

The shy, haunting lustre beneath, 
As bright as the wild spray that dashes — 

As soft as the dew on a wreath! 
Her delightfully perilous glances 

Extorted my rapturous sigh; 
To flee them, perhaps there were chances — 

But her dimple, ah, who could defy! 

Her beauty was ever before me, 

Like an innocent star in the night; 
Her dimple 'twere well to deplore me, 

Like a sharp-shooter hidden from sight. 
All armor were useless, but elfin, 

For none can be fashioned by art; 
And lacking the sort to put self in, 

A flash! — I was shot through the heart. 



25 



jjHajtfJioom autr JWsrtlr 



THE OLD CLOCK 

LONG since run down, 
It ticks no more, 
Though the dusty town 

May toil and roar. 
To Time farewell 

It said, you see, 
With its silver bell 

At half past three. 

Half past three — 
'Tis the best of hours 

In Winter's glee, 

Mid the Summer flowers. 

If I might choose 
'Twould always be 

With me, dear Muse, 
Just half past three. 

See the roses drowse 

On yonder wall, 
While amid the boughs 

The birds low call. 
26 



i«ant»loom an* i«yvtlc 

~ 

Sweet hour when Care 

Ne'er claims his fee — 
How could he dare 
At half past three! 

Mid-afternoon ! 

No heart aches blight; 
'Tis yet too soon 

To dread the night. 
Day's loveliness 

From sorrow free 
Each soul must bless 
At half past three. 

Ah, dear old Clock, 
How wise you were! 

Though Time may knock, 
You will not stir. 

Pray teach me how — 
Yes, whisper me 

Your spell just now, 
At half past three! 



27 



JWaofcloow an5 JHffvtle 



A TWILIGHT PICTURE 

AT the hour of twilight stilly, 
In a cozy window nook, 
Softly bending like a lily 
Breathless o'er a story-book, 
Sitteth Edith; 
As she readeth, 
Pity shines in every look. 

Few the cares that ever find her, 

Summer's with her all the year; 

Jack will tease, or Gyp won't mind her 

Such the woes she hath to fear. 

She must borrow 

All her sorrow, — 

On her book hath dropped a tear! 

I, alas, am eight and twenty, 

Edith's only eight and three; 
I have daily cares in plenty, 
Sorrows, too, that never flee; 
Would that Edith 
As she readeth 
Might let fall a tear for me. 



itta.nblQom anH Jftgvtle 



INGLE FANCIES 

A SONG for the fire on the hearthstone 
a-glow 
When Summer hath fled with her fragrance and 

blow; 
Though bleak be the hillside, new pleasures we 
know, 
Nor storm-cloud nor tempest can harm us. 
'Neath the lamp's golden lustre with picture 

and book, 
Companioned by poets and sages we look 
Down vistas of fancy, secure in our nook, 

And a thousand sweet dreams come to charm 
us. 

The flail of the sleet and the howl of the blast 
But blend with the tales that we read, till at 

last 
The white plume of Bayard gleams out from the 
past 
Round castles beleaguered, and cities; 
Or, the storm waxing fainter, fresh visions de- 
light- 
Love hastens with Fancy to rapture the sight, 



jHagtitoom auir jHgrttt 



And we wend through a wood with some amorous 
knight, 
And list to his love-laden ditties. 

The flames leaping higher, we turn with a smile 
To the knight of the sorrowful figure a while, 
And Sancho a-daft for the long-promised isle 

That fate is so tardy to dish up; 
Or we hark to the Dromios' humorous clack, 
Or the valorous Falstaff in praise of sweet sack; 
Or else — for of fun there is never a lack — 

We list to Gil Bias and the Bishop. 

In cushionful ease 'neath the light of the lamp 
We wander at will through the court and the 

camp; 
No terror can fray us, no hardship can damp 
The joy that springs up from the ingle. 
We dream and we dream until nothing seems true 
Save that which is pleasant. Our youth we 

renew 
In olden romances, and we are knights, too, 
With helmets and spurs all a-j ingle. 

A song for the hearthstone, a lyric of mirth, 
For pleasures untold in its glamour have birth, 
Which hearts never know that love only the earth 
When mated with sunshine and flowers. 

30 



jWagfllootn antt Jflgrtle 

So heap on the logs. With picture and book, 
Companioned by poets and sages, we look 
Down vistas of fancy, secure in our nook, 
And a thousand rare visions are ours. 



SI 



jtt*fif)loom auir J»»rtU 



PRISCILLA 

PRISCILLA hath come back to town 
A little bandit queen, 
Her cheek hath robbed the berry's brown, 

Her eye the dewdrop's sheen. 
Upon her lips there brightly glows 

The poppy's crimson hue, 
With Autumn music in her toes 
She charms the avenue. 

Alas! how wildly hearts will beat 

That late kept slowest time; 
Alas ! how many a snowy sheet 

Will meet its fate in rhyme! 
Laugh, Cupid, laugh, with saucy glee 

At all the pangs in store, 
But never point thy dart at me — 

My heart was hers before. 



32 



iWafifiloow anir Jttgrtu 



THE MAID OF JAPAN 

I KNOW a little maid, 
May her beauty never fade! — 
And her fan, 
May its flutter never cease; 
Though it robbed my heart of peace, 
In Japan. 

Where the cherry blossoms blow, 
Blossom-like, she walked below, 

Yo-ki-san ! 
Needless Cupid's bow and darts 
To that little Queen of Hearts, 

In Japan. 

Why, 'twould give your heart a twist 
Just her merry laugh to list; 

And a span 
Were the length you'd like your ear, 
Should you catch it tinkling clear, 

In Japan. 

O, her cunning little song! 
It is funny. Was it wrong? 
Will it scan? 

33 



When I spied her dimpled chin, 
It was fascinating din, 
In Japan. 

Then she brewed a cup of tea, 
And she slyly winked at me, 

O'er her fan, — 
Enough! No poet's ink 
Could describe that witching wink 

In Japan. 

That for Gibson girls! Instead, 
I am going back to wed 

Yo-ki-san; 
And live a life of mirth 
Till I vanish from the earth 

In Japan. 



34 



3**tij>moam amr jWjjttle 



TO MABEL WHO WISHED TO BE A 
SHEPHERDESS 

YOU'D like to be a shepherdess 
Beside a summer brook? 
The sweetest rhyme could ne'er express 

How charming you would look. 
In kirtle blue and ribbons fair, 

'Mid your devoted sheep, 
I'm sure that you would never share 
The fate of poor Bo-peep. 

Ah, if you were a shepherdess 

We'd meet at dawn of day! 
The blissful thought, I must confess, 

Quite takes my breath away. 
We'd gaily trip across the grass, 

Unmindful of the dew; 
In faithful love I'd far surpass 

The lamb that Mary knew. 

Were you a little shepherdess, 

We'd skip and tra-la-la 
Until, for very joyousness 

The woolies echoed " Ba-a! " 
35 



j^flffWoottt uvea iWsrtu 



And then some sweet, secluded spot 

We'd seek in merry mood, 
And, by the selfish world forgot, 

We'd feast on berry food. 

Were you a little shepherdess — 

What happy fancies teem ! 
With difficulty I repress 

My rapture at the dream. 
With Mrs. Grundy out of sight, 

And nature all in tune, 
We'd fold our lambkins up at night 

And woo beneath the moon. 

Oh, if you were a shepherdess — 

But have you weighed the price? 
I shudder at your wild distress, 

Deprived of chocolate ice. 
And how you'd miss your curling tongs ! 

Without a looking-glass, 
In spite of all my pretty songs 

You'd be a wretched lass. 

Ah, if you were a shepherdess — 

Imagination climbs! 
On such a theme I might digress 

And weave a thousand rhymes. 
36 



But you will never sport a crook 
To witch my raptured sight — 

Here comes your aunt with savage look 
The ball is done — good night ! 



37 



JHasiiloom auir JHstrtle 



LITTLE WHITE SHOON 

LITTLE WHITE SHOON, you are dainty 
and slim 
As you flit o'er the ballroom floor; 
Worthy are you for an artist to limn, 

A poet to hymn — and adore. 
I gaze in amaze at your frolicsome flight, 

As a wight by enchantment bewitched — 
But what do you care as you trip it to-night? 
You snare that the Pixies have stitched! 

Little White Shoon, like twin butterflies 

That circle a garden a-blow, 
With rapturous sighs and love-laden eyes 

I follow wherever you go. 
'Neath satin a-shimmer you glimmer as gay 

As lily buds wet with the dew — 
If I mix up my similes, pardon me, pray, 

Each moment I'm wildered anew. 

Little White Shoon, you have gallants, a score, 
Around you they sigh and aspire, 

And into your ear vapid compliments pour 
Unmeet for the grace they admire; 

38 



But melody springs from my lyre, for its strings 
Are a-quiver because you are near, 

And when you have vanished, like all lovely 
things, 
The world of your beauty shall hear. 

Little White Shoon — afar from the rout, 

What fancies are blent with my dreams ! 
As you pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat gleaming about, 

I catch the sweet ripple of streams; 
The scent of the wild rose a-sway in the wind, 

The song of the shy forest bird, 
The glamour of moonlight with shadows en- 
twined, 

In my dreaming are felt and are heard. 

Little White Shoon, the night's ebbing fast, 

The East's growing pink with the morn; 
The fairer the vision the quicker 'tis past — 

Alas, must you leave me forlorn ! 
The cellos are breathing a final refrain: 

May your beauty ne'er wither or blight, 
And soft be the touches of sorrow and pain; 

Little White Shoon, good night! 



39 



JHafiiiloom atrtr jWgttle 



PEGGY 

O PEGGY, dear Peggy, so lovely you are, 
I'm dazzled anear you and haunted afar; 
Each moment I find in your flowerlike face 
Some shy hidden charm it is rapture to trace. 
In the depths of your eyes shadowed violets nest, 
That come in the night-time and rob me of rest; 
And when hies the morning no comfort I win, 
As I dream of the dimple that peeps from your 
chin. 

Ah, Peggy, dear Peggy, the lasses all frown 

As you trip through the street in your pretty 

blue gown; 
They scoff and they murmur; there's sorrow to 

pay — 
The hearts of the laddies you've taken away. 
The eyes of the swains ever follow your feet, 
Bewitched by a music no rhyme can repeat; 
For the fairies attend you wherever you go, 
And dance to the pat of your gay little toe. 

Yet, Peggy, dear Peggy, with lovers a score, 
Some day you must choose from the hearts that 
adore; 

40 



There's a time to coquet and a time to have done. 

You've smiled upon twenty, now love only one. 

Tis folly to falter. Why tarry to mate? 

A word in your ear as you tremble and wait. 

True counsel I offer, as honest as free, 

Just take my advice, Peggy — Peggy, take me. 



41 



jHafftilootu anil JWffttle 



LONG AGO 

I WATCHED her sew, a witching sight, 
Her dimpled cheeks with youth a-blow 
Beneath the lamp's rose-shaded light. 
It should have shamed me well, I know - 
Her gleaming needle nimbly bright. 
'Twas she that toiled. Her idle beau, 
I watched her sew, 
Long ago. 

I watched her sew, I, happy wight. 
When was it? Ah, 'twas long ago. 
Yet Memory's graces never blight, 
Sweet beacons baffling Time, the foe; 
And 'twas her wedding gown that night 
My bride to be — with eyes a-glow, 
I watched her sew, 
Long ago. 



42 



JHanliloom autr Jtt»rtU 



MY LITTLE PICTURE TREE 

UPON me, from my study wall, 
A little picture looks, 
And bird-like e'er its glances fall 

From out a nest of books. 
And when I lift my weary eyes, 

It seems to smile at me, 
As if it wished to chase my sighs — 
That little picture tree! 

Of course there's something else beside 

The tree to give me joy: 
A brook, some sheep; and happy-eyed, 

A little shepherd boy. 
Who sits and sings the whole day long, 

The while, with kindred glee, 
A merry bird gives song for song 
Upon my picture tree. 

'Tis pleasant to have something nigh, 

Where life is only play — 
When everything has gone awry, 

To look at something gay; 
43 



To know, when all the sunshine's gone 

And only clouds I see, 
That still the sun is shining on 
My little picture tree. 

When disappointment plants a sting, 

When editors refuse, 
When long-expected letters bring 

The very worst of news; 
Whene'er my faithful wife is cross, 

Or children won't agree, 
There still is balm for all my loss 
Beneath my picture tree. 

Upon the brook the lilies gleam 

In soothing grace arrayed, 
Their vision sets my soul a-dream, 

And all my sorrows fade; 
The little woolies seem to say: 
" Why don't you do as we? 
There's nothing drives our joy away 
Beneath the picture tree." 

And then I emulate the sheep, 

Who wiser are than I; 
I close my eyes and fall asleep, 

And fancy by and by 
44 



JHa$tJloom autr JW»trttt 



That free from care and all annoy, 

With every bliss in fee, 
I am the little shepherd boy 

Beneath my picture tree. 



45 



Jttasfcloow antr Jtt»rtle 



AN OLD MIRROR FROM TOURAINE 

IT is a thing of beauty. See 
The frame with lovely figures garnished; 
Here Pan pursues lithe Nymphs that flee — 
What grace survives by Time untarnished! 
The rim, too, cirques a lake of light 

Which keeps unflawed the olden splendor, 
As pure as when at Beauty's rite 

It smiled to greet forms fair and slender. 

I trow before it many a snare 

Was slyly laid by scheming Cupid, 
Who joyed to find a witching lair 

'Neath rippling locks, by ribbon loop hid. 
Doubt not he forged his keenest dart 

In laughing eye, or twinkling dimple, 
And when he pierced a gallant heart 

There was no healing herb or simple. 

Perchance Diane de Poictiers 

Before this mirror bound her tresses; 

Or peerless Gabrielle d'Estrees, 

Whose charms no artist's brush expresses; 

46 



H«cTi>tiioom antr J»»rtle 



Ay, Sorceresses by the score 

Arise, with claims to goodness fragile, 

For when Romance hath oped her door, 
Imagination waxes agile. 

In old Touraine what glamour lies! 

Our sterner rules in vain assert you; 
More lenient grow our wistful eyes 

When steeper mounts the path to virtue. 
The pretty moths! They singed their wings, 

And fluttered oft in clouds of scandal. 
But think! It was enamored kings 

Who stooped to light the luring candle. 

An epoch 'twas of love and crime, 

Of gleaming armor, plumes and lances, 
Cowled Monks that pray, Trouveres that 
rhyme — 

Ah, how the picture still entrances! 
All sinful deeds we should regret, 

And strive to chill the glow that fills us; 
It was a fearful age, and yet — 

And yet a strange enchantment thrills us. 

In modern ways we would delight, 

Would praise above the old, the new man, 

And still the medieval knight 

We much prefer — he was so human. 

47 



A sinner oft, but ne'er a cad, 

In morbid scenes he scorned to revel; 

And by the glimmering light he had 

He sought the truth, and fought the Devil. 

The women, too, of elder days, 

Let legend still their crowns bequeath them, 
The while we listen to the lays 

With which their faithful minstrels wreathe 
them! 
And though we deem them weakly willed, 

Why should we scoff, with wisdom riper? 
Like shattered roses they are still, 

And if they danced — they paid the piper. 



48 



Jttafffiloom anir jWgrtle 



BY THE HEARTH AT HALLOWEEN 

THE wonder hours are with us; upon the 
hearth to-night 
Around the heaped-up logs the flames twine up 

in weird delight. 
They set the shadows dancing o'er the rafters 

and the wall 
Till it seems the gnomes of Elfland have burst 

their mountain thrall. 
To the crackle of the blazing wood within the 

chimney place, 
How the shadow ballet bows and sways with 

tiptoe, pixy grace ! 
And sooth, should not a touch of fairy pageantry 

be seen? 
It is the spot for glamoury — the hearth at 

Halloween. 

Yea, 'tis the hour for glamoury. Let Fancy have 

her way. 
To-night the powers unknown to us may change 

our lives for aye — 
May weave our lots like tiny threads, and dye 

them dark or fair — 

49 



May give us garments for our souls we may not 

choose but wear — 
May plan our paths, and who shall meet on 

ocean, land or lake; 
What breasts shall swell with happiness, what 

hearts shall ache and break. 
If ever spells are worked at all this is the time, 

I ween, 
And this the wonder haunted spot — the hearth 

at Halloween. 

Can't you catch an eerie answer in the echo when 

we laugh? 
Can't you see an eerie winking in the bubbles 

as we quaff? 
And dared you glance behind you as you came 

a-down the stair — ■ 
Didn't you feel as if a face unseen had breathed 

upon your hair! 
I know not how it is with you — it filled me with 

affright 
When I passed the long, white mirror ghastly 

gleaming in the night. 
Ah, cast another log on, yes, a dry log, not a 

green. 
And draw a little closer 'round the hearth at 

Halloween. 

50 



jHasfiloom auir JWffttle 



'Tis gliding on to midnight. See the embers 

growing gray. 
The Cricket stops his shrilling and in silence 

steals away. 
What is it makes us whisper? Is it aught we 

can divine? 
It seems to me 'twere meet to sing the song of 

"Auld Lang Syne." 
And as we sing we'll think of them — the faces 

of the dead; 
And when at last the dear old words all fra- 
grantly have sped, 
Hand clasping hand we'll breathe a prayer, and 

then with hearts serene 
We will wend to peaceful dreaming from the 

hearth at Halloween. 



51 



Sgrtra of Slow 



S3 



jHaubloom autr JWgrtle 



AN OLDEN DREAM 

DO you recall the roses white 
That blossomed in the long ago? 
I still can see the petals light 

That fell and flaked your locks below. 
Beneath the swaying vine that night 
You heard my passion, half afraid; 
No blossoms now are e'er so bright, 
For memory's roses never fade. 

Oh, say, do you recall the song 

You sang beneath the summer moon? 
The lay was neither loud nor long; 

'Twas even then an old, old tune; 
Yet often mid the careless throng 

Within my heart its echo sighs, 
And sings and sings when life goes wrong - 

For memory's music never dies. 

Long years have passed. Again with you 

I linger in the stilly night; 
Above the darkness and the dew 

The faithful stars are shining bright. 
55 



iftagfllooro ana jWgrtli 

The tears that fill your eyes of blue 
Proclaim you too have known regret; 

Sweetheart, let's make the old dream true 
Though late, we may be happy yet! 



56 



JWayMaom mXf MsvtU 



THE FAIRY FLOWER 

I SAW a fairy flower a-blow, 
It gladdened all the day; 
With wistful eyes I watched it glow, 

And then I turned away 
With thought to come again ere night; 

At twilight-tide 'twere best 
To cull that little blossom bright, 
And wear it on my breast: 
And so, 
My footsteps I hurried, 
Alackaday ! 
I toiled the long hours in glee, 
With dreams of the grace of that way-side place, 
And the blossom that blew for me. 

With toil o'erspent I came at last. 

'Twas dewy even-tide, 
And down the morning way I passed 

With Memory for my guide, 
And where the light was wan and thin 

I dashed the boughs apart; 
So eagerly I sought to win 

The blossom of my heart: 
57 



jj»agtttoom ana jmgrtle 

But oh, 
Love was the flower, 
Alack aday ! 
In a woman's face it shone, 
And a wiser than I had passed thereby, 
And the bloom of my life had flown. 



58 



ittftgtfjiootti autr JWjjvttt 



WHEN KATY TUNED THE OLD GUITAR 

THE sweetest strain that ever 
My raptured ears have heard — 
I know that memory never 
Can lose a single word — 
Was on a balmy evening, 

That crowned a summer day, 
When Katy tuned the old guitar 
And sang my heart away. 



The happy starlight beaming 

Upon her lily throat 
Set wistful fancy dreaming 

W r ith every haunting note. 
It was no idle ballad, 

No senseless modern lay; 
With " Bonny Annie Laurie " lo, 

She sang my heart away. 

And when the song was over 
And Katy breathed a sigh, 

She, too, could boast a lover 
Would lay him down and die. 

59 



iHastrtoom autr J»»rtle 



'Twas then I told my secret, 
And still I bless the day 

When Katy tuned the old guitar 
And sang my heart away. 



60 



itf <n>tiioom auir jHgrtle 



A MESSAGE BY NIGHT 

I THINK of you. I wonder 
How went with you the day; 
If you are dull, or sorry; 

If you are glad and gay; 
How bend the skies above you, 
If they are soft and blue; 
Like birds they come, 
When words are dumb — 
The thoughts I think of you. 

I think of you. I wonder 

What faces do you meet; 
And if their glances charm you, 
And if their smiles are sweet; 
If you forget the absent — 

They say that most men do ! — 
But you? — Oh, no! 
It can't be so; 
I won't think that of you. 

I think of you. Perhaps you 
Are dancing at a ball. 

61 



Your partner next — I wonder 

If she is short, or tall. 
I almost heard the music — 
Just now the night wind blew — 
It could not be, 
I know; but see 
How much I think of you. 

I think of you. Soon morning 

Will blossom o'er the sea; 
To me — all night so wakeful — 

'Twill bring no joy to me. 
The weary, weary hours! 
Alas, my joys are few; 
And all day long, 
Till evensong, 
I'll only think of you. 

I wonder, yes, I wonder, 

Why Fancy flies so fast; 
Why Memory paints so brightly 

The pleasures that are past! 
'Tis sad to sit and marvel 
At Time's and Fate's decree: 
I think of you — 
If I but knew 
You only thought of me! 

62 



JWaj>filoom amr J«i?rtle 



A TWILIGHT SONG 

THE day is waning in the west, 
As fades the summer rose; 
And softly, with a song of rest, 

The evening zephyr goes 
To wake, like little sparks of light, 

The tiny drops of dew, 
The fairy lanterns of the night 

That lead to dreams of you, Sweetheart - 
That lead to dreams of you! 

Avaunt the bramble cares that lie 

Along the path of toil! 
Calm twilight soothes my anxious sigh, 

And stills the fraying moil; 
And faring homeward through the dusk 

Life blooms with hope anew. 
With thoughts out-sweeting thyme or musk 

I go to dream of you, Sweetheart — 
I go to dream of you! 

Asleep, and fended from my grief, 
Too fleetly hies the day; 

63 



jWagfltoow antt JKgrtU 

The happy night is all too brief, 
Would it might last for aye, 

Or else that I might never wake 
To find my dream untrue! 

Some time my hapless heart will break 
Because I dream of you, Sweetheart 
Because I dream of you! 



64 



Jttafffiloom auir JHffirtle 



THE GARDEN OF MY HEART 

THERE is a garden in my heart 
By memory's fingers planted; 
No frost can make its bloom depart, 

Or break the spell enchanted. 
From year to year 
It grows more dear, 

'Neath skies of cloudless hue, 
Where love abides without a fear, 
And dreams, Sweetheart, of you. 

There is a garden in my heart 

That ne'er a storm hath blighted, 
Where, mid the flowers, untouched by art, 

Sweet Fancy strays, delighted; 
Where care, nor grief, 
Nor Time, the thief, 

Can ever work me rue; 
And every little, laughing leaf, 

In whispers, talks of you. 

There is a garden in my heart, 
So fair that in the gloaming 
65 



The happy teardrops swell and start 
Where'er my feet are roaming. 

So blessed am I 

I cannot sigh 

For bliss beyond the blue; 

For who could long for joy on high, 
Beloved on earth by you? 



j«<U>WooiH amr $&$vtU 



SONG 

I LOVE thee as the wind of night 
Adores the summer rose, 
And ever in the silver light 
His homage soft bestows; 
With joy, because her lovely face 

Hath bound him with a spell; 
In woe, because her matchless grace 
His song can never tell. 

I love thee as the forest brook 

The fragile woodland fern, 
Love murmuring through the shadowed nook 

At every pebbled turn; 
With rapture, that she bends so near, 

The shy and trembling leaf! 
In pain, he cannot stay to hear 

Sweet answer to his grief. 



67 



jWagWatnu an» JWgrtle 



THE BLOSSOM FROM LILLIAN'S HAIR 

THE morning hath silvered the sea, 
In the east is a glimmering light, 
The world is awaking in glee, 

But my memory reverts to the night. 
I dream of a fair woman's face 

As she bade me good night on the stair, 
And I tenderly place 
In a little brown vase 
The blossom from Lillian's hair. 

With long silken lashes a-sweep 

O'er her cheek that is dimpled below, 
I picture her softly asleep, 

Like a lily half hid in the snow, 
While I in my loneliness kiss 

The prize that I won with a prayer; 
Of a moment of bliss 
All is vanished but this — 
A blossom from Lillian's hair. 

At noon when her eyelids unclose, 
And the fairies of Drowsyland flee 

68 



JWa^Wooro amr JW^rtle 



That guarded her balmy repose 

Will she give a small fancy to me? 
No matter! this dear little bloom, 

Though faded, I'll treasure with care; 
'Twill lighten the gloom 
Of my desolate room, 
The blossom from Lillian's hair. 



69 



JWajjWooro autr JWfitttt 



SONG AT TWILIGHT 

SITTING in the twilight, with remembered 
Junes, 
I dream of her I used to love, and hum the old 
love tunes; 

And wonder if the maidens 

I meet are now as fair, 
Or Summer's blossoms half as sweet 
As those she used to wear. 

Sitting in the twilight, stars peep amid the gloom: 
There's fragrance on the eventide; for Memory's 
roses bloom. 

And in the wind's low whisper 

I seem to list once more 
The loving words she used to say, 
The Love I loved of yore. 



70 



Jttasblooro an* JWjjrtU 



SONG 

I WANDERED through the wildwood, 
The way was dank and cool, 
With here and there a slanting ray 

A-glimmer on a pool. 
I seemed to feel a prescience 
Ineffable and rare; 

And though that day, 
Far leagues away, 
I knew my love was there. 

I turned me to a field-path 
Beneath the sun a-glow; 
Amid the grasses at my feet 

Bright blossoms were a-blow; 
They seemed alive with joyous grace, 
So blithe they were, and fair. 
But sweeter still, 
There came a thrill — 
I knew my love was there. 

When happy hearts are loyal, 
No distance can divide; 
71 



jWaotiioow an* JHgrtle 



Or far or near, an effluence 

O'erspans both hill and tide. 
Some subtle power e'er through it steals 
And robs the soul of care. 

What's fleeting breath, 
Yea, even death, 
When love is everywhere? 



72 



jHaffWoom an* JttgrtU 



ROSE SONG 

THE roses come with every Spring 
To blossom just as fair; 
Beneath the flying swallow's wing 

They sweet the sunny air. 
Red, white, and gold, with grace untold, 

They bud, they blow, they flee, 
To come again just as of old 
And thrill the wold with glee. 

The happy flowers, I love them well. 

I marvel not the wind, 
Enchanted by their fairy spell, 

Lags, loverlike, behind. 
Yet all the while he sighs his woes 

As if on bended knee, 
I'm dreaming of a vanished rose 

I nevermore shall see. 



73 



jHas&loom aixtr JWffttle 



UNDER THE MOON 

FLOWERS, and dew, and the moon shining 
down, 
And you, little Love, in your filmy, white gown — 

Time — cruel Time — stay your flight! 
Though flouted by Fortune, and scorned by 

Renown, 
I'm happy, yes, happy tonight. 

One hour I've drank of a rapture undoled; 
Love hath answered to love as my passion I 
told — 

1 have culled the fair ros~ of delight. 
Ah, little I care what the future may hold, 

You are mine, you are mine, Love, tonight! 

The beads on Life's rosary — many are dark, 
And counted in sorrow. One pearl I can mark; 

Its lustre, white, peerlessly white; 
When all waxeth dim, I shall treasure its spark — 

Ay, dead, I shall dream of tonight. 



74 



jtta»t>loom ana jwgttle 



THE LOVER 

THE lover — what should counsel him. 
And mingle magic with his song? 
The spirit of the twilight dim, 

The soul of summers sweet and long; 
The carols of the birds and bees, 

Blent with the breath of moonlit flowers 
Which garland Time the while he flies, 
And add but swiftness to the hours. 

The lover — ah, what shall I take 

To symbolize his faithful soul? 
The moon-chained tide with ceaseless flow, 

The needle constant to the pole, 
The echo of the distant hills, 

That sweetens discord as it flies, 
The fragrant herb that, crushed, distils 

A keener perfume ere it dies. 

The lover — oh how blest is he, 

E'en though his bliss no guerdon gains! 
A boundless bliss he holds in fee 

That crowns with rapture all his pains. 

75 



jWagflloom anft J»grtle 

For 'tis not being loved that wreathes 
The heart with joy's supernal glow; 

No; it is loving that bequeathes 
The purest pleasure life can know. 



76 



JWa»tiloom anU JHsrtle 



NUTTING SONG 

THE day that we went nutting 
To memory how dear! 
The music of the swaying boughs, 
The west wind, crisp and clear, 
Upon whose wings were wafted 

The scent of spicy leaves, 
Blent with a softer fragrance 
Of wheat and barley sheaves. 

The day that we went nutting 

Blue skies o'er-arched the ways, 
And vanished summer's beauty 

Still hung, a haunting haze, 
Too peaceful e'er to sadden, 

Too lovely not to bless — 
An aureole o'er the future 

Of joy and tenderness. 

The day that we went nutting 
Amid the autumn woods 

We shook the shining chestnuts 
From out their prickly hoods, 

77 



And hickory nuts and hazel, 
They gaily pattered down; 

But not a one could match in hue 
Your gleaming eyes of brown. 

The day that we went nutting — 

Rare, golden afternoon, 
With thistle-down a-floating 

Like flitting fairy shoon, 
There was some spell around us 

Unfathomed of the wise; 
Its thrilling power I felt, although 

It baffled ears and eyes. 

The day that we went nutting 

We thought alone we strayed; 
But one with fern seed 'neath his foot 

A tricksy visit paid: 
Beside our well-filled basket 

Young Cupid tripped in glee, 
And as we bore our treasure home 

He won your heart for me. 



78 



jttajjfclooro autr MsvtU 



MY LOVE FOR THEE 

THE love whose thoughts far swifter fly 
Than sea birds through the spray; 
The love that craves with stifled sigh 

A dear voice far away; 
Whose longing memories strive to trace 

Each smile of vanished glee; 
And soars sublime through time and space — 
That is my love for thee. 

The wistful love that clings and clings 

Like some forsaken child; 
The trustful love that sings and sings 

With echoes weird and wild; 
That whispers in the lonely night 

Of what can never be, 
From eyes a-gleam with tearful light — 
That is my love for thee. 

The love that hath no part of bliss 

And only breathes in pain, 
And yet whose pang I would not miss 

For all the stars contain; 

79 



jttagflloom mxt msvtlt 



That broke my heart in days gone by, 

And wrecked my life for me, 
The hopeless love that ne'er can die — 
That is my love for thee. 



80 



Ittanfitoom an* JHgrtle 



THE WAIF 

WITH words as sweet as violets 
I wove a dainty song for her; 
My fingers stole across the frets, 

And set the golden chords astir, 
They quivered with a passion true 

That told my heart was hers alone; 
But, oh, her love was like the dew, 
A-flash at morn, ere noonday flown! 
Yet I will keep my lay, 
And bide another day; 
The bird that flies 
To other skies 
Returns to greet the May. 



Mayhap some day her merry glance 

Will fail to meet the light it throws; 
Some day her happy heart perchance 

May feel the thorn beneath the rose; 
And if neglect should pain the breast 

That nature only formed for glee, 
With aching heart that longs for rest, 

My little Love may fly to me. 
81 



Then I will rise and say: 
Let naught my Sweet affray. 

Love's beacon burns, 

My bosom yearns; 
The old love lives for aye. 



82 



jWiU'Woom an& J»j?rtle 



SERENADE 

THE moon is all silver, the heavens all blue, 
Soft whispers the wind from the sea; 
The white roses nodding and glistening with 
dew 
Are wafting their fragrance to thee. 
Lean out from thy window, lean forth with a 
smile 
And pity thy lover below; 
Let thy beauty shine out like a pearl from the 
isle 
That only the sea fairies know; 
For naught to compare is — 
So sigh the wee fairies — 
With thee in thy beauty a-blow. 



The night bird is singing as if he were daft 

A lay to his mate in the tree. 
How far I'd surpass him had I but the craft! 

Wild-sweet were my love song to thee. 
So give me one glance of thy lily-like face 

Ere the moon goeth down in the west; 
Ay, add the last charm to an hour full of grace 
83 



i«a$tJlo6)n anft JWsttle 



' And heaven and earth will be blest. 
Let one look delight me, 
One soft smile good night me, 
Then sink like a dove in thy nest. 



84 



jWagWooro auir iWjjttle 



SONG IN ABSENCE 

SWEETHEART, how fares the night, 
While I am afar — and alone! 
To viol and flute do you glide through the 
light 
Like a Nymph from the wildwood blown? 
Do the Gallants struggle as you trip by 
To catch one glance from your laughing eye, 
Bright as the dew when the Wind's asigh, 
From skies of April blue? 
Anear, or apart, 

The round year through, 
Flower-o'-my -heart, 
I dream of you. 



Sweetheart, the hours are long, 
But nothing my faith can mar; 
Not even Fancy can work you wrong — 

God bless you wherever you are! 
Pure as the bloom by the Springtide rill, 
The trembling flower that knows no ill, 
'Tis you I love — and have no will — 

As the wave to the star, I'm true. 
85 



Anear, or apart, 

'Neath Rose or Rue, 
Flower-o'-my-heart, 

I dream of you. 



86 



SJgnrfi of Nature 



87 



ittcinbloom autr JWgrtlt 



TWILIGHT 

THE light is growing dimmer, 
And the white musk roses glimmer 
In the gray. 
From every wayside thicket 
With his tiny dirge a cricket 
Mourns the day. 

The shades are waxing thicker; 
See the ghastly moth a-flicker — 

What would he? 
Like a greedy, ghoulish spectre, 
He hies to glean the nectar 

Of the bee. 

Oh, the borderland of daytime, 
'Tis the fickle fancy's maytime, 

When the eye — 
Ha! what was that a-quiver! 
How the leaflet made me shiver, 

Flitting by! 

Eerie seems the fragrance 
Of the flowers in its vagrance — 
Who can tell! 

89 



jHastiloom auir JW»rtU 



Be there ghosts, as one supposes, 
Then why not wraiths of roses 
Just as well? 

In the daylight are we deafer — 
Heard you e'er from noontide zephyr 

Such a tune? 
But see! — the spell is over; 
Above the hillside clover 

Comes the moon. 



90 



jWajufjloow ^ntlr Jttjjrtle 



WHERE THE ROSEMARY BLOWS BY 
THE SEA 

THE Summer is passing. A prescient tint 
Is blent with the blossoms that border 
the lane; 
With sound, as with color, is wafted a hint 
As I list to the cricket's reiterant strain. 
The charms that are fleeting grow dear as they 
part, 
The joy of the Spring dwells in beauty to be; 
And the grace that is latest I clasp to my heart, 
Where the Rosemary blows by the sea. 



The songs of the birds in the Winter are still, 

Their carols are borne to a sunnier shore; 
But the lay of the billows no north wind can kill, 
And louder 'twill ring when the Summer's no 
more. 
The blast from the Norland may whiten the 
spray — 
But what is the bloom of the ocean to me! 
Far dearer's the beauty that nothing can stay, 
Where the Rosemary blows by the sea. 
91 



The Summer is passing. Another will come 
With birds, bees, and blossoms to breathe of 
their bliss; 
But something I cherished will ever be dumb, 

In the whispering breezes a grace I shall miss. 
Sweet Summer, good-by ! What the heart cannot 
bind 
It loves with a fondness that never can flee — 
And that is the message I've wandered to find, 
Where the Rosemary blows by the sea. 



92 



jttajv&looro autr Jttgrtle 



THE OLD-TIME FLOWERS 

THE old-time flowers! The flowers seem 
bold 
That deck the lawns today; 
Too confident their buds unfold, 

They are too proudly gay; 
Their hues are dazzling in the sun, 

They flaunt before the eye. 
It was not so my heart they won — 
The flowers in days gone by. 

The old-time flowers! How sweet they were 

Upon the morning bough! 
Each dawn I felt my wonder stir — 

Are there such perfumes now? 
It was not strange the dewdrops gleamed 

More brightly on their sprays, 
Or if by night the glad stars beamed 

With softer, gentler rays. 

The old-time flowers! I often long 

To view their vanished grace! 
A thousand lovely visions throng 

As fancy turns to trace 

93 



Those fragile petals filmy fair, 

That wooed the golden light 
In that old garden quaint and rare 

Whose love no time can blight. 

The old-time flowers — the birds and bees 

That hummed those flowers among! 
The spring now brings no melodies 

As sweet as those they sung; 
And in the breeze that murmurs by 

There's something lacking too; 
And when I lift my glance on high, 

The sky seems not so blue. 

The old-time flowers, all flowers above, 

Their peerless day is o'er, 
Yea, old-time flowers, like old-time love, 

They glad the world no more. 
And yet what lovely visions throng 

As Fancy limns their grace, 
Which echoes like a sweet, old song 

In Memory's twilight place. 



94 



jtfasfiloom <w?r M&vtU 



WIND SONG 

I LOVE the song of the wind in the grass 
Where the gay-winged butterflies flutter and 
pass; 
And the white-browed daisies bend and sway, 
A-drowse in the balm of the summer day; 
While all day long o'er the clovered lea, 
From bloom to bloom flits the droning bee. 
I feel a spell that is soft and mild, 
And I sink to rest like a tired child; 
I dream and dream, and the wrong comes right. 
Would time stood still — but it won't, alas — 
As I list to the song of the wind in the grass! 

I love the song of the wind in the tree, 

It lifts my soul with its carol free; 

I view the boughs as they laugh and toss, 

And dapple the light on the low, green moss. 

I upward look, and I long to know 

The wordless message that glads them so. 

The young birds high in their swinging nest, 

I envy the wings that they long to test. 

They will leave, I know, when the summer is done, 

And seek some blooming isle of the sun; 

95 



jttastiioom auir Jflterttt 



Yet I share a joy that is not for me, 

As I list to the song of the wind in the tree. 

I love the song of the wind o'er the wave, 

For it seems to tell of the sailors brave; 

And I fancy the music which rings o'er the foam 

Is a message of love to the loved at home; 

For love can span, if the love be true, 

A thousand leagues on the ocean blue; 

And across the waste that hath no track, 

The thoughts that are fond come swiftly back; 

As the sea-gull flies to his craggy nest 

Flits the dreaming heart to the spot loved best. 

So I lift for the sailor a sturdy stave 

As I list to the song of the wind o'er the wave. 



96 



JHas&loow antr Jtt»rtle 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

I LOVE the merry warblers, 
The lyrists of the Spring. 
But when those bards in feathers 

Have flown on fickle wing, 
Out, from the frozen grasses, 
There hies, without delay, 
A singer small, 
More blithe than all 
The tuneful choir of May. 



Without — the snow is drifting; 
Within — the back-log's glow 
Slow-waning, leaves in shadow 

My faithful books a-row; 
I catch the wind's wild moaning, 
An yet — I am not sad : 

Care frowns in vain — 
I entertain 
A Minstrel ever glad. 

He pipes — I feel the sunshine, 
I scent the Summer rose; 

97 



JW3»iJloom mi's Mgvtlt 

Anear my feet a brooklet 

Is tinkling as it goes; 
The yellow bees are humming 
A drowsy, golden glee; 
And all night long 
I live in song 
Through Summers yet to be. 



98 



jHagfiloow anir JWsrtle 



A SUMMER MOOD 

BY Fancy led my heart's away; 
Such golden weather's made for play 
'Tis only dullards toil for aye, 

And hoard up treasure 
That graceless heirs may make them gay 
In thankless pleasure. 

Yes, let me lie beneath the trees 
Mid clover rippled by the breeze, 
And list with quite unenvying ease 

My toiling neighbors, 
The never-resting, moiling bees, 

And scorn their labors. 

Perhaps 'tis wrong, with careless eyes, 
To cast my lot with butterflies, 
Philosophers of azure skies 

Who know no sorrow. 
Yet if my life should lack in sighs, 

There's grief to borrow. 

No tangled creed my soul shall bind; 
I'll frolic with the laughing wind, 

99 



jHagttlooro ana jflgrtle 

And leave my gnawing care behind, 

Or tread the worm on; 
While in each fragrant flower I'll find 

A joyous sermon. 

The woodland scents shall be my gain; 
Their balmy breath shall wash my brain 
Till, clean of every spiteful stain, 

I wax so moral. 
On all my faults I frown disdain — 

And never quarrel. 



100 



i«ayWoom autr Jttjjrtle 



WHAT THE WILD WINDS SAY 

WOULD you know what the wild 
winds say? 
'Neath the sun and the rain 
You must tune your brain 

In the dim, new day; 
From the world apart 
You must list with your heart 
To know what the wild winds say. 



To learn what the wild winds tell, 

You must leave your book 

For the forest brook, 
And the leafy dell; 

You must seek to be wise 

'Neath the open skies, 
To learn what the wild winds tell. 



For the lore of the winds is deep! 
They have quaffed the dew, 
And the mystic brew 
Their lips still keep. 
101 



jWauMootu anlr J»»rtle 



Where the night flower gleams, 
They have fathomed her dreams — 
Oh, the lore of the winds is deep! 

When you know what the wild winds say, 

Ah, cool in your breast 

The song will rest 
Like a charm for aye; 

For the sweet message told, 

Will never wax old, — 
When you know what the wild winds say. 



102 



JHagiiloom autr JHsttle 



CRAPE MYRTLE 

IN the land where I was born 
Grows a flower that I love; 
And to-day, 
It is blowing in the morn, 
With Southland skies above 
Blue and gay. 

In a Norland land afar 
I am haunted by its spell, 
Flower of love, 
Like a fair and distant star, 
Like the murmur of a shell, 
Or a dove. 

Tis a garden quaint and old, 

Where the rose and jasmine white 
Interlace — 
There its plumes of pink unfold, 
And its sweetness charms the night, 
Full of grace. 

The Mock-bird builds his nest 
In the fragrant gloom below, 
'Neath its gleams; 

103 



jmagtrtooffl antt jWgrtle 

And he sings his mate to rest — 
I can hear the music flow 
In my dreams. 

O those myrtle boughs of pink 
Swaying in the Southern calm! 
Weary brains 
Need of Lethe ne'er to drink, 
For before their beauty's balm 
Sorrow wanes. 



104 



JHasWooro an* Jttffrtle 



THE SECRET OF THE WOOD 

THE bards of old sang Arcady, 
Where nimble dryads tripped the glen; 
Ah, would our hearts could wiser be, 

Yet keep the olden joy of men! 
For me the woods still weave a spell 

Within their aisles of fragrant green, 
And fancies come no doubt can quell, 
And whisper oft of forms unseen. 

Or nymphs, or elves, not mine to name 

The beings strange I feel so near; 
A quiver steals along my frame, 

An eerie thrill too faint for fear. 
Ah, what was that? A leaflet? No! 

That glided through the dappled air, 
I felt it come, I felt it go; 

It touched my cheek and stroked my hair. 

'Tis fled; and now a murmur swells 
Companioned by a scent so sweet, 

Of rites mysterious it tells, 

And viewless censers frail and fleet. 
105 



jWas&loom anir jWgrtlt 



I strive to catch the whispered prayer 
That floats along the forest nook 

Before it fades in cadence rare 
Blent with the tinkle of the brook. 

Still deeper down the verdant way 

A quaking leaf, not zephyr-fanned, 
Lures on my feet; I must obey 

The beckoning of an unseen hand. 
Such slender film two worlds divides, 

No longer far that finer air 
Within whose depths a secret hides 

inimitably great and fair. 

A secret 'tis to soothe and bless 

The aching thirst of restless hearts 
Who only feel life's bitterness, 

Unanswered longings, poisoned smarts. 
A secret 'tis no chemists fire, 

No philosophic search can wrest; 
'Twill only gladden his desire 

Who kneels and lists at Nature's breast. 

Though much be known, still more remains; 

We cannot tell what yet may be. 
We dull our sense with fruitless gains; 

With clouded eyes how can we see? 

106 



jWagft lo otti an* J»grtU 

The Heaven we deem so faint and far, 
Past planet mild, or Milky Way, 

Who knows it lies in some fair star, 
And not around our path to-day? 

Perhaps not in the sullied mart, 

Where priests of fraud and Mammon meet, 
But in some purer place apart, 

Where blossoms blow and light winds greet; 
Where hills and vales in verdure new 

Stretch 'neath a sky of perfect peace, 
Or 'mid the isles of ocean blue 

Whose tuneful murmurs never cease. 

It may be so; and when we go 

Far from the crush of moiling men, 
Where green boughs wave and brooklets flow, 

There may be forms about us then 
By us unseen, whose bosoms yearn 

To minister and soothe our pain; 
And that is why refreshed we turn 

To lift the daily cross again. 

'Mid woods and fields how sweet it were, 
At dewy morn and twilight bland, 

To feel in summer winds astir 
Caresses of some vanished hand; 
107 



jWastilootH autr j»»rtle 



To know the haunting fragrance mild 
Was not the flowerets' gift alone, 

But came from lips that loved and smiled, 
And love us still though silent grown. 



108 



iWaylUoom anir Mgvtlt 



WILD ASTERS 

IN gold and purple galaxies 
Ye star the countryside; 
Ye twinkle in the Autumn breeze, 

And then ye halfway hide 
Your lustre in a cloud of green, 

By modesty to gain 
A subtler grace to spell the scene, 
Wild Asters in the lane. 

The blossoms in the fields of May, 
Their dewy grace I knew, 

But ne'er a one could witch the day 
With such a winsome hue; 

The clover blooms allured the bee 
For luscious treasure fain, 

But ye are dearer far to me, 
Wild Asters in the lane. 

Perhaps it is the Autumn sky 

Reflected in your look, 
Perhaps the cricket's lonely cry 

Ye list beside the brook, 
109 



jHasliloom autr JEgrtlc 



There's something to your presence lends 

A charm that's half a pain; 
A pathos rare your light attends, 
Wild Asters in the lane. 

Who knows that flowerets never feel, 

Nor thrill with joy or dole, 
That when they die no spirits steal 

To seek a distant goal! 
'Twere surely wiser were it planned 

That when your colors wane, 
They flee to glad another land, 
Wild Asters in the lane. 

Ye never saw a city street; 

It were a crime to tear 
You from your shy and cool retreat 

And take you fainting there; 
Let Memory your beauty shrine, 

And treasure free from stain; 

Unseen, but ne'er forgot, be mine, 

W T ild Asters in the lane. 



110 



i«at>t)loow auir jWgrtU 



THE CHEROKEE ROSE 

WHITE-BROWED and gold-hearted, at 
morning a-sway, 
'Mid glossy green leaflets, a joy to the day, 
In my garden you seem like a dryad astray, 

As fair and as fearless of foes. 
Sweet Flower, have you wandered your sisters 

to see? 
Your lot is far gayer, unpruned in a tree, 
Where the mockingbird sings and the wild 
bumble-bee, 
My blithe-hearted Cherokee Rose. 



Astonishment beams in your innocent eyes 
And marvel I not at your look of surprise 
As you gaze at the blossoms of myriad dyes 

That the prim garden borders disclose. 
But cherish no envy. You need not the 

aid 
Of the gardener toiling in sun and in shade; 
There's a charm that is peerless by art 
unarrayed, 

It is yours, O Cherokee Rose. 

Ill 



To the crest of the old ivied cedar you climb, 
For the raindrops to kiss, for the zephyrs to 

rhyme; 
Do you know in a garden such freedom is 

crime? 
Pray gaze on the prim Jacqueminots. 
How crisply they bear them! Caressed by the 

light, 
Each rich crimson petal is curved just aright. 
Who knows — they may bloom in a ballroom 

tonight, 
While you slumber, sweet Cherokee Rose. 



But little you care, O you darling of Spring! 

All night you will sleep as the cedar boughs 
swing; 

And at morn to the eastward your grace you will 
fling 
To welcome the dawn as it glows. 

While the poor Jacqueminots near a hot chande- 
lier, 

On a heart like to break, 'neath a lash with a 
tear, 

Will shatter and fall ere the dawn draweth 
near, 
Passion-blighted, my Cherokee Rose. 

112 



JWaatiloom at«r JW^trtle 



Enough, there are hearts that are pure and are 

true, 
And the eyes of their owners are as soft as the 

dew! 
I know such a maid, bonny Rose, do not you? 

And this nook 'neath the cedar she knows. 
For 'twas here that I wooed her. My heart, how 

it leapt! 
As I told her my love, to my bosom she crept. 
Did you hear? 'Neath the roses all secrets are 

kept; 
Keep mine, O Cherokee Rose. 



113 



Jttaytuoom auir JWsttle 



MID - AFTERNOON 

I LOVE the calm mid-afternoon, 
With sunbeams well aslant, 
When, on the breezes half-aswoon, 
Is borne the bees' low chant — 
Those drowsy rhymes that never cease, 

And ever soothe the brain, 
Till, freed from care, the heart at peace 
Forgets its olden pain. 

I love the calm mid-afternoon 

Where in some garden nook 
My fancy dons its fairy shoon 

Above some old-time book 
Whose knights are brave, and ladies fair, 

And hearts are always true, 
And loyal hope wins guerdon rare, 

Just as it ought to do. 

I love the calm mid-afternoon 
When for one too-brief hour 

The fevered world is all in tune 
And sorrow reft of power. 
114 



JWa»fjloow autr JW»rtlr 



Alack-a-day ! Of bliss the whole 
Can ne'er upon us gleam; 

And yet — 'tis but a dreary soul 
That knows not how to dream. 



115 



JHagWooro auir JW»rtU 



NOVEMBER 

THE roses are shattered upon the dank 
mould, 
All scentless and withered their frail petals lie ; 
How dreary the wind, and its whispers how cold ! 

Amid the brown rushes how eerie its sigh! 
At the death of the flowers the Autumn leaves 
trembled ; 
A fate that was tristful foreshadowed their own. 
Ah, sad is my heart — in circles assembled 
Afar to the southward the swallows have flown. 

Now still ye, wee Cricket, amid the dusk there ! 

Such woe overburdens a piping so thin. 
Ye never can voice it; your dirges forbear; 

Naught eases my sorrow, no solace I win. 
Far better in silence lost beauty remember 

While fancy relimns us the joys we have known. 
Yea, hush we our hearts — 'tis sodden November. 

And far to the southward the swallows have 
flown. 



116 



i«ai?Moom auir JWj?rtle 



THE WIND IN THE NIGHT 

ODID ye hear the wind as it moaned, as it 
moaned — 
O did ye hear the wind in the night? 
Not star was in the dark 
That a mortal eye could mark 
When arose the eerie strain 
As of hapless souls in pain 
On their flight — 
O did ye hear the wind in the night? 

O did ye hear the wind as it shrieked, as it 
shrieked — 

O did ye hear the wind in the night? 
I trembled in my dread, 
Yea, I shuddered in my bed. 
Stricken souls — where did they go? 
Were they guilty? Was it woe? 
Was it fright? 
O did ye hear the wind in the night? 

O did ye hear the wind as it wailed, as it wailed — 
O did ye hear the wind in the night? 
117 



But silence came at last 
To the sorrow in the blast, 
For no torture lives for aye — 
E'en the wicked find a day 
Free from blight: 
I know it by the wind in the night. 



118 



j«aymoow auir JEjjrtle 



A PETAL OF A SHATTERED ROSE 

WEE petal of a shattered rose, 
A tiny thing of white, 
The sport of every wind that goes 

To meet the Autumn night; 
How eerie in the waning light — 

How piteous its grace! 
Where wends it now in feeble flight, 
To what dark resting place? 

Where are the mellow bees it knew — 

Where is the butterfly, 
The gallant blithe that came to woo 

While yet the noon was high? 
Where all the pretty pageantry 

That made the garden gay? 
I only catch the cricket's cry 

Amid the grasses gray. 

The scattered leaves from oak tree torn 

That in the gust flit by 
With rustlings weird have strength to mourn, 

To voice at least a sigh; 
119 



iWtefffilootn autr Mpvtlt 



Poor petal, far more frail than they, 

It dumbly meets its death, 
Though pleasure fleet, and hope betray, 

Sweet to its latest breath. 

The day is cold. The year is old. 

There's not a star to cheer. 
It wrings the heartstrings to behold 

A little thing in fear; 
A little thing — it dims the eye — 

That hath no voice to moan, 
And only seeks a spot to die 

In darkness and alone. 

A moment lulls the piercing blast — 

It flutters to the ground, 
And neath a wayside hedge at last 

The long-sought rest is found. 
There let the wrinkled spider weave, 

And shroudlike be his weft; 
Ay, let him weave, and let him grieve - 

There's naught of Summer left. 



120 



JWayUloom autr JHffttle 



A CRICKET SONG 

THE Cricket sang in the night 
From the wan and withered grass, 
And his song was a song of blight, 
Of hopes that wane and pass; 
Asleep, I stirred my restless head, 
For I saw the roses shattered and dead; 
And the birds — the birds with summer fled, 

From afar they wailed, " Alas! " 
Through the long night in my dreams it rang 
And rang, the song Cricket sang. 

The Cricket sang in the night, 
And, oh, 'twas an eerie strain. 

The strings of my heart grew tight 
To echo the thin refrain; 
For I felt a dear, dead hand in mine — 
Not warm, but chill as the chill sea brine; 
And I saw two eyes with teardrops shine — 

That olden look of pain! 
And at morn, when I rose in grief to go, 
I wondered how did the Cricket know! 



121 



&tm# mh j^ataro 



123 



jWagtiloow antr J»»rtle 



THE OLD MAN AT THE TOLL GATE 

THERE is an old man at the toll gate; 
His features are weird and grim. 
Though I hate and loathe it greatly 

I must greet the face of him. 
For on the way I must fare, and so, 
Though he gives me pain and works me woe, 
Through his horrible, horrible gate I must go, 
The dreadful old man at the toll gate. 

This gaunt graybeard at the toll gate, 

He stretches his fingers old, 
And his withered and covetous grasping 

Can never be bribed with gold; 
But ever he stands in relentless mood, 
His eager clutch is greedy and rude, 
And yet what he takes can do him no good, 

This gaunt graybeard at the toll gate. 

This horrid old man at the toll gate, 
As my trembling footstep nears, 

With a smile I cannot beguile him, 
I cannot persuade him with tears 
125 



He leans and leans in his ghastly glee 
To take of my treasures his hateful fee; 
While I shudder and look his choice to see, 
The horrid old man at the toll gate. 

This old miser man at the toll gate, 

To his guarded latch I've crept 
With the hope that I might pass it 

By chance while its warder slept. 
Vainly I seek to be shrewd or sly; 
He's always awake when I come nigh, 
And I pay his fee with a weary sigh 

To the old miser man at the toll gate. 

The greedy old man at the toll gate, 

He waits with covetous eyes. 
He has garnered the most that I treasured, 

And little I've left me to prize. 
He has tithed my strength from year to year, 
He has taken the faces I loved most dear — 
Alas, I have now not much to fear 

From Time, the old man at the toll gate. 



126 



JWafitiloow anir JWsrtle 



FOREBODING 

IF love could pass as die away 
The summer winds at ebb of day 
That through the amber silence stray, 

Sweet heralds of repose, 
Whispering in the ear of Night 
The memory of the Morning's light, 

The fragrance of its rose, 
Then we might love and never dread 
The awful void when love is dead. 



127 



$ma$i>ioam au5 JW»rtU 



THE FAIRY IN THE FIRELIGHT 

THERE'S a Fairy in the firelight 
Upon my ingle-stone, 
And oftentimes she sings to me 

Of what hath long since flown; 
No louder than a whisper, 
Far sweeter than a bird, 
It is the dearest music 
That mortal ever heard. 



There's a Fairy in the firelight, 

An Elf that is so shy 
She never makes her melody 

If anyone is nigh; 
And as she sings she moves her wings 

And waves her wand to me, 
And while that wand is waving 

What pictures I can see! 

There's a Fairy in the firelight, 
I know not how, but when 

She sets my heart a-dreaming, 
I am a child again; 

128 



mzgmom auir jtt^rtle 



The world hath lost its sorrow, 
There is no blight, no bane, 

And every dread afar hath fled, 
The past can give no pain. 

There's a Fairy in the firelight, 

And when the flame is low, 
They win no thought, the living, 

From me amid the glow, 
But while the music lingers 

Beside the embers red, 
They gather near my soul to cheer, 

The Spirits of my dead! 

There's a Fairy in the firelight, 

And if by fancy brought, 
The solace is so wonderful 

I know 'tis heaven-wrought — 
I know she is a messenger 

Unto a dwelling bleak, 
From loving eyes that long for me, 

From lips that fain would speak. 



129 



jUflgUIoom an* JHsrtlt 



SONG 

WHAT are the dark Winds saying 
Now that the days are drear, 
The meadow grass a-graying, 

On the withered fern a tear? 
What are the dark Winds saying? 
O lone, lone, Heart, they are praying 
A prayer for the passing year. 

What are the weird Winds sighing 

Now that the year is old, 
And the thistle-down is flying 

Like a wraith o'er the chill, dank mold? 
O lone, lone Heart, they are sighing 
A dirge for a sweet hope dying, 

And a faithful love untold. 



130 



JHagfclootu autr JWgrtle 



FORGIVEN 

AS I strayed through the wood in the wither- 
ing day 
And the moon wore a veil of gray, 
I listened to the song that the twilight weaves — 
The dim, low strain of the quivering leaves 

That only the wind can repeat; 
And in the half-night, with its weird, weird 
light, 
I felt my heart a-beat. 

For it seemed in that lone place, 
That my fair first Love was nigh; 
In the shivering dusk, with its breath of musk, 
I could almost hear her sigh. 



As I strayed through the wood in the blossoming 
night, 
And the moon waxed shyly bright, 
By her wan, sweet lustre it seemed to me 
That my old Love's face I could verily see; 

And I longed — how I longed — to be shriven ! 
" O Sweetheart, speak! But a word I seek — 
To know that the dead hath forgiven! " 
131 



Then it seemed in that lone place, 
While mine eyes with tears were blurred, 
Down the woodland aisle I saw her smile; 
And I knew that my prayer was heard. 



132 



jWaffWoom auti J»»rtle 



THE ROSE AND THE STAR 

WHY is the rose so gay in its filmy beauty 
clad, 
And why is the star of eve alway, in the cloudless 

west so sad? 
The rose lives only for a day, and at dark in the 

dust it lies, 
While the star shines still o'er river and hill, a 

joy to mortal eyes — 
Why, I say, is the rose so gay, and the evening 

star never glad? 

The voice of the wind I caught, 

O'er a shattered rose it blew, 
And I know its words, as it wandered by, 

In the garden old were true. 

" The rose is gay, though brief its breath, 
Because it ne'er hath looked on death; 

But the evening star on high — 
Why should it not be sad? Alas, 
It hath watched a million summers pass, 
Like beautiful visions over a glass, 

And — a myriad roses die! " 
133 



JWagfcloow ana JWfittle 



THE WAYS OF MEMORY 

STRANGE are the ways of Memory. 
Who knoweth what her sheaf will be? 
She gleans the while we sleep. 
She heedeth not the hours a-chime, 
But gathers 'neath the scythe of Time 
The treasure she would keep. 

She threads her path mid joy and grief, 
Takes here a thorn, and there a leaf; 

There's nothing 'neath her ban. 
'Tis very strange, her how — and why; 
Much that we prize she passeth by; 

None may divine her plan. 

Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 
At morningtide, at eve, at noon 

She weaves her quiet spell. 
She chooseth here, rejecteth there; 
And slowly grows her garland rare, 

Each flower an immortelle. 

Sometimes we strive with might and main 
To guide her choice; 'tis all in vain. 
Upon the land and sea 
134 



JWagUlooro autf Msvtlt 



She follows us with haunting gaze, 
And on our hearts her hand she lays — 
No whither can we flee. 

Strange are the ways of Memory. 
Who knoweth what her choice will be, 

What treasure she will prize? 
Perchance a rose dead many a year, 
The light upon a silent tear 

Within a loved one's eyes. 



135 



JWastiloow atrtx Jtt»rttt 



BY -GONE DAYS 

OBY - GONE Days, O By-gone Days, 
More distant every year, 
The dreary seasons slowly pass 
And you but grow more dear; 
Like faithful stars whose radiance 

The upper deeps illume, 
In dreams by day, as well as night, 
I watch your beauty bloom. 

O By-gone Days, dear By-gone Days, 

The happy birds of Spring, 
They strove in vain your grace to lilt, 

'Twas past their power to sing. 
As dewdrops gleam upon the rose 

That meets the kiss of morn, 
So haloed Hope each budding joy 

Now shattered and forlorn. 

O By-gone Days, fair By-gone Days, — 

I see a garden knoll; 
Amid the golden jasmine bells 

The brown bees toil and troll; 
136 



A mock-bird in the myrtle boughs 

Sings carols o'er his nest — 
Sooth, angel ears in Paradise 

No sweeter song e'er blest! 

O By-gone Days, long By-gone Days — 

There are no sunbeams now 
As bright as those that slanted then 

Through every blooming bough; 
Such perfumes now no blooms keep, 

No winds so softly blow 
As those that haunt me in my sleep 

From days of long ago. 

O By-gone Days, lost By-gone Days 

That never can return, 
Though blue your skies, your blossoms rare, 

Not most for these I yearn. 
All these I might have learned to lack, 

And never more to see — 
But, oh, the voices that I loved, 

The eyes that smiled on me! 



137 



JHafitJlootu anir JW»rtle 



THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 

I HEARD a voice in the night, 
It came from far away. 
'Twas the voice of my vanished youth; 

In the gloom I heard it say: 
" Where are the deeds you vowed to do — 
Where are the laurels bright of hue? 
There's naught in your hands but dust and 
rue, 
And your face is worn and wistful. 
Once I held your promise true; 
The end is drear and tristful." 



It paused. And again in the night 

I caught the sorrowful tone 
Fading and dying away, 

Like the echo of a moan: 
" I was so happy, happy then! 
Where are the prizes of sword and pen? 
I limned you high mid the sons of men, 

And glory-crowned forever. 
Alas, we never shall meet again — 

No, never — never — never !" 

138 



It spoke no more. In the night 

I breathed a weary sigh; 
And then to the tristful voice 

I softly made reply: 
" O vanished youth, that laughed in glee, 
'Twas you, 'twas you that promised me: 
Where are your visions fair to see? 

Flown, like the dew from the heather; 
Each, alone, his weird must dree, 

But all may mourn together." 



139 



jHafftiloom ana Jttfftrttt 



SONG 

HOW long it seems since I was young, 
And all the world was fair; 
How merry were the songs I sung, 

And how I scoffed at care! 
Tis only youth that's gay and bold — 
I am so old, I am so old! 

My summer was all love and glee, 

I've seen its grace depart. 
Now bitter winds of memory 

Wail round my autumn heart. 
Yes, love hath fled, and friendship's cold 
I am so old, I am so old. 



140 



jttafffcloom untf iWjjrtle 



A DEAD BUTTERFLY 

HIS wings are yet with beauty tinted, 
Their hues are still as lightly fair 
As when their fragile glory glinted 

Gleeful through the Summer air. 
Though motionless — no breezes breasting, 
Careless whence their fragrance blows — 
So bright in death, he seems but resting 
On a rose. 



Ah, let the bees untiring labor, 

Filled each with forethought and with fear, 
And scorn with sullen hum their neighbor, 

For him the rosebud sheds a tear; 
And all the garden seems more tristful — 

How mournfully each blossom sways ! 
Or is it Fancy makes me wistful 
As I gaze? 

Now had his slender hold been stronger 
On Summer joys too briefly kenned, 

Or had his happy days been longer, 
Lingering on till Autumn's end, 
141 



jttaotiloom ana j»gvtU 

Could he have lived, and only left us 

When the cup of bliss was drained — 
Ah, 'tis that Time so soon bereft us 
We are pained. 

The bee that dies with golden honey 

Safely hoarded in a hive 
Is like a miser and his money, 

We scarce can wish him still alive. 
But here no sordid thought steals on us 

To shame our grief — 'tis all sincere; 
For the cheery grace that won us 
He is dear. 

So haste, kind Night, with dewy glances 

His tiny bier in lustre lave; 
Fulfil, fulfil my longing fancies — 

Let forms unseen now delve his grave. 
While the white June roses shatter 

Let the Pixies take their guest, 
Where the petals faintly patter, 
Let him rest. 



142 



jHapttioom autr JWffttle 



I WANT TO GO A-BERRYIN , 

I WANT to go a-berryin' — 
How strangely like a tune 
Echo those words around my desk 

This sultry afternoon! 
The figures all to berries turn; 

I can't make out a bill: 
I want to go a-berryin' 

On Farmer Bolton's hill. 



I want to go a-berryin', 

There's nothin' half so sweet; 

The longin' stirs my blood until 
It tingles in my feet. 

I see the red, red clusters in 
The field above the mill: 

I want to go a-berryin' 

On Farmer Bolton's hill. 

I want to go a-berryin* — 

But not to go alone; 
I want to go with Mary Jane 

As in the years a-flown. 

143 



i&ft9filoom auir Jttgrtle 



Just one tin pail between us — how 

Our han's would meet and thrill ! 
I want to go a-berryin' 

On Farmer Bolton's hill. 

I want to go a-berryin'. 

What things we used to say! 
Ah, Mary Jane, she always had 

The sweetest sort o' way! 
To hear her little laugh — oh my ! 

'Twould set my soul a-thrill 
When we were out a-berryin' 
On Farmer Bolton's hill. 

I want to go a-berryin'. 

Alas, why did I leave 
The only girl I ever loved — 

I wonder did she grieve! 
How could I hope to find afar 

Aught that her place could fill, 
Or sweeter joys than berryin' 
On Farmer Bolton's hill? 

I want to go a-berryin' — 

I want to, oh, so much, 
To go I'd give just all the gold 

I ever hope to touch. 
144 



J«anl)inom auir JHfirtU 



But though the eyes of Mary Jane, 

Like stars, are beckonin' still, 
No more shall we go berryin' 
On Farmer Bolton's hill. 



145 



JHafitiloom auJr $&pxtU 



THE BACHELOR'S CHRISTMAS EVE 

SANTA CLAUS peeped from the hearth- 
stone, 
And I — I peeped from the bed. 
" This call is quite queer! Pray, why are you 
here? " 
I summoned my courage and said. 
" If you've come here a-seeking wee stockings and 

shoes, 
You've made a mistake in the matter of flues — 
For this is a bachelor's chimney." 



Santa Claus stared from the hearthstone, 

And I — I stared from my bed. 
His cheeks, they were pink, and he tipped me a 
wink, 
And quoth, with a wag of his head: 
" Good Friend, don't ask me the reason I 

came; 
Just say if there's something you'd like — that's 

the game. 
Come, up with your stocking. I vow it's a shame 
That this is a bachelor's chimney! " 

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Jttaitfiloom atrtr Msvtlt 



Santa Claus stood on the hearthstone, 

And I, half rose from my bed. 
But I uttered no word — for my heart was 
stirred 
And I thought of the years long sped. 
" Is there nothing you lack? " He spoke with 
glee. 
I'm your fairy godfather, you know," said he. 
" In my pack I've wonderful things — come 



see 



Yes, e'en for a bachelor's chimney." 

Santa Claus laughed on the hearthstone, 
But I — smiled not from my bed; 

A great longing filled my soul, and killed 
The joy that his kind face shed. 

" The gift I desire — I fear 'twill cost — 

Is the light of two eyes 'neath the marble 
mossed — 

Go, bring me the Love I loved — and lost! " 
And the night wind moaned in the chimney. 

Santa Claus shrank on the hearthstone, 

And I, sank back on my bed; 
And the embers fell — like a ghostly knell — 

To ashes gray and dead. 

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jWafffilootn a na J»grtu 

" God pity the wish of your stricken soul! " 
He sighed, and I saw a tear-drop roll. 
" The boon that you crave is beyond my dole - 
And he fled with the wind in the chimney. 



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JttagtHoom anir JHgrtlt 



THE OLD SONGS 

I WANT to hear the old songs, 
The songs I used to hear, 
When every day brought happiness, 

And Fancy flouted fear; 
When sunset's glory ever new 

Foretold a morn more bright — 
I want to hear the old songs, 
Oh, sing me one tonight, 

I want to hear the old songs, 

No thrilling, no roulade 
Where music dons her lace and gems 

And trips in masquerade. 
But give to me the simple strain 

That seeks the heart outright, 
And nests within its deepest part — 

Oh, sing me one tonight. 

I want to hear the old songs, 

Their names I need not tell; 
The quaint old names mean naught to you, 

But I can feel their spell. 
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Each one, a key, can ope to me 

The garden of delight 
That blossomed in my vanished youth 

Oh, sing me one tonight. 

I want to hear the old songs — 

I never hear them now — 
The tunes that cheer the tired heart, 

And smooth the care-worn brow. 
Heard in the twilight's dreamy hour, 

Best suited to their flight, 
Each cadence like a blessing falls — 

O, sing me one tonight. 

I want to hear the old songs, 

The gentle lullabies 
That reft me of my weariness, 

And closed my childish eyes; 
The fabled music of the spheres 

Beside those strains would blight, 
The dear old songs my Mother sang — 

Oh, sing me one tonight. 



THE END. 



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AUt 1 WO 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



LIBRARY OF 

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016 



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